Teenlock Adventures
by aelv13
Summary: A teenage John Watson comes to a new school, befriending the charismatic and lonely Sherlock Holmes. The two have a series of adventures beginning with a vandalized locker and spiraling into a great perhaps.
1. Chapter 1-4

**CHAPTER ONE**

John slammed his dusty locker and sighed. Day one at a new school, and he was alone. Not a single student had even noticed he was there. It didn't help that his locker was in the boondocks of the school, either. No one had told him as much, but it was quite clear that the basement was not high-value real estate. A few smokers also had lockers down there, but they didn't care that it was a six-minute walk to class, seeing as they spent their time gathered in the corner, passing around a joint. The only other things nearby were janitor's closets and a suspiciously unlabeled locked door.

The bell had already rung, and John was late. He rushed up a flight of stairs and headed to English class. The halls were filled with a few hurried stragglers, none of whom gave John any notice. He started when a tall boy blocked his path.

"You – are you new?" The boy demanded, not angrily but almost with distress.

"Um, yes?" John said, looking at the floor.

"Oh good," the boy replied, leaning causally against the row of lockers as though the late bell had not rung several minutes ago. "I was worried I might have forgotten to include someone in my database. But I can gather data on you later. So, you're new? How come you're late to class?" he paused, and looked John over. John became suddenly very self-conscious. "Oh, I see. They gave you a locker in the basement."

"How the fuck did you know that?" John demanded. Who was this boy, planning to 'gather data' on him, whatever that meant, now knowing these things about him?

"Simple," the boy began, looking rather pleased with himself, "First, you're breathing heavily. Just ran up a flight of stairs, I assume. We're on the first floor, so you came from the basement. What were you doing down there? Well, the smokers hang out down there, but I can see you don't smoke. You tried it once at your old school, only because your friends were, and never want to do it again. So, what were you up to? It's dusty down there, and I see dust on your right hand. So you touched something. Opened a doorknob, perhaps? No, it's only on your thumb and forefinger. You must have opened a combination lock. Also, your backpack is slightly unzipped. You must have opened it recently, presumably to put away your books. Conclusion: your locker is in the basement."

"Amazing," John breathed, looking at this tall boy with scraggly, slightly curly black hair, and an aura of omnipotence about him.

"What? Oh, that's nothing," the boy grinned and stuck out his hand, "Sherlock Holmes."

"John Watson."

"I know."

"How? More amazing deduction?"

"No," Sherlock grinned again, "the great power of observation. It's written on your backpack."

"Oh," John suddenly got a feeling that he was not coming across as particularly smart. It was the first interaction he'd had with a student here, and it didn't seem to be going well for him. Sherlock clearly thought otherwise though.

"Well, I see we're both going to English class…don't give me that look, it's quite clear, you're walking towards the English wing…so I guess we'd best be off."

"Yes, I suppose so," John mumbled, trying to pretend like he didn't care that someone was finally being friendly. He didn't want Sherlock to go. If Sherlock left, he'd be alone again.

"One last thing, John?" Sherlock paused, "I assume you generally want to get to class on time, right?" John nodded. "Well, your basement locker certainly won't do. You can share mine." He patted a blue locker covered in scratches, "Number 221B. Best locker in the school if you ask me." He winked. "Combination is 7-4-37. I'll see you around, John."

And he left, leaving John in the hall, staring at locker 221B, and at Sherlock's retreating curls. Things were looking up.

**CHAPTER TWO**

John was desperately hoping that Sherlock was in his lunch period, so maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't have to sit alone. He turned earnestly as someone tapped him on the shoulder in the lunch line.

"Oh good, Sher-" John began, then realized it wasn't him. The boy towering over his short stature was probably a senior. He had a large nose, like Sherlock, and thin dark hair.

"You…I saw you talking to Sherlock Holmes." The boy said forcefully, but with a calm look of control and smugness. John nodded meekly, not sure what else to do.

"As it so happens, I know him too. Just not as well as I'd like to. You see, Sherlock and I have an…interesting relationship. I'm concerned about him. It would be great if I had someone like you to let me know how he's doing…keep me updated."

"Oh really?" John replied, staying calm but still slightly frightened, "and how do you know him, exactly?" He looked around the cafeteria, but no one noticed the two boys in their strange meeting.

"Loyal to him already, are we, John?" John twitched when the strange boy used his name, "Sherlock and I go way back. Closest thing he has to a friend, I believe. He refers to me as his arch-enemy. Always so dramatic."

What kind of teenager has an arch-enemy? John wondered to himself. The boy watched him with amusement.

"So what do you say, John? Will you do me that favor? One buddy for another?" he punched John gently in the shoulder, like they were bros or something. "Just keep an eye on him, and report back to me. I can make it worth your while. I know you struggle in history. No, no, don't give me that look, I know these things. Anyways, I have ways to fix those grades. If you help me," He winked at John, "what do you say?"

John was taken aback, and he didn't say anything. First of all, how did this senior know so much about him? And why was he interested in Sherlock, a sophomore? John narrowed his eyes.

"No thank you, I'd best be getting my lunch now," John said.

"So loyal, and you've barely just met him," the boy tutted. "Well, I'm sure I'll be seeing you around, John." He winked, grinned, and disappeared from the lunch room. John was left to buy a cold ham sandwich in utter bewilderment.

He saw Sherlock sitting alone at a table by the window. John cautiously approached him and sat in the seat next to him. Sherlock didn't even look up.

"I've just met a friend of yours," John ventured cautiously, still not sure how to behave around this boy.

"Oh?" Sherlock replied, still not looking up from his mobile screen.

"Well, an enemy, he said."

"Which one?

"You arch-enemy, he said. Do people actually have arch-enemies?"

"Oh, him. Did he offer to raise your grades to spy on me?"

"Um, as a matter of fact, yes."

"Did you accept?"

"No."

"Pity. I'm sure your parents won't be pleased with those D's."

"Who was he?"

"That's not important, John. What's important is this." Finally, Sherlock looked up, and pointed his phone screen in John's direction. John squinted to make out the picture on the screen.

"That's my locker."

"No, it isn't. I thought your locker was 221B now? This is your old locker. Your previous locker. Your ex-locker. You cheated on it with 221B and then dumped it. Harshly. I'm sure it feels unloved."

"Well. I never thought of it like that."

"Most people don't. Most people are so adorably ordinary. I cannot imagine what goes on in those boring little brains of yours."

"You're insulting me."

"I am not. It was actually a compliment. I called you adorable."

John had never met anyone like Sherlock. He felt the strange feeling that being around Sherlock was both entirely frustrating, but somehow, he still enjoyed it.

"So what's so important about my ex-locker?"

"Clearly," Sherlock said, slamming his hand on the table, making John jump, "you did not look closely enough!"

John again peered at Sherlock's phone screen. And he saw it. Someone had written 'FUCK YOU' across it in blocky painted letters. John raised his eyebrows.

"Is this supposed to be a bad thing? Day one at a new school, and someone already wants to fuck me. I'm very popular with the ladies, you know."

Sherlock laughed, but it was a tense sort of laugh, as if the idea of girls fucking John wasn't his happiest thought. John didn't pick up on the tension, and continued.

"I drive the ladies mad, you know. So mad that they can't contain themselves, and they're driven to desperately beg for my sexual prowess by communicating such on my locker door."

This time, Sherlock kept his face emotionless, especially at the mention of John's alleged sexual prowess.

"Look, John, you've made an enemy. Or enemies. Probably from hanging out with me. Are you sure this is the life you want at a brand-new school? Look," He gestured across the cafeteria, "A whole room of healthy, sane, non-sociopathic teens to hang out with. And you chose the guy who's sitting by himself?"

"I'm good," John replied, not even thinking.

Sherlock grinned. "I was hoping you'd say that."

**CHAPTER THREE**

John's phone buzzed in physics. His face turned bright red as the students around him sniggered. Luckily, the teacher didn't notice. He unobtrusively checked the screen and found a new text message waiting.

Meet at 221B after school. It's important. SH

John rolled his eyes. He decided not to ponder how Sherlock got his mobile number. Probably guessed it from his lunch choice or something. He allowed his mind to meander beyond physics and try to get his head around the new player in his life named Sherlock. Here was a boy who wore purple button-down shirts to school, shirts that made him look sophisticated, smart, and dead sexy. Did I just think that? John immediately began to work on projectile motion problems with intensity for the rest of the period.  
John had had one girlfriend previously, at his old school. Her name was Katherine and she was a theater geek. He had, like any dutiful boyfriend, sat through renditions of _Bye Bye Birdie_ and _Pippin_ and many more. Not that he didn't enjoy theater. But he was pretty sure he'd prefer to watch it sitting next to someone instead of watching them onstage and sitting alone.

He'd dumped her, eventually. It had taken a lot of guts, but he just wasn't feeling it. The Katherine escapade had been about six months ago, and he hadn't done much in that area since. And despite his macho talk to Sherlock at lunch, he was a virgin.

He wondered vaguely if Sherlock was a virgin.

He wondered if Sherlock had a girlfriend. Or boyfriend.

He wondered why he cared whether Sherlock was involved with someone. It didn't matter to him. He'd just met Sherlock only today.

John sighed and went to wait for Sherlock by locker 221B. He spotted the tall boy coming down the hall and smiled to himself. A boy, holding hands with a short girl with pigtails, called out to him.

"Hey, Sherlock! Got any _deducing_ to do? Guess what? Last night, I _deduced_ your mum!" The girl playfully chastised him, but was giggling at the boy's comment. John stepped forward, harboring a strong urge to punch the boy in the face. With a chair. But Sherlock turned slowly to face his insulter.

"Andrew," he said calmly, "look at your left shoe. It has a bit of string stuck to it. It's a tampon string, minus the tampon. Must've stepped on it and picked it up. Where?" He leaned towards Andrew and sniffed. "Yes, that's right. You smell like lavender soap. Only bathroom that supplies that is the girl's lavatory in the mathematics wing. What were you doing there? Well, judging by your disheveled hair and untucked shirt, you were hooking up with someone. With whom? There's a cat hair stuck to your shirt. Marie Wilson owns a cat. She was also wearing a sweater today, and has maths sixth period. I wonder if Jeannie here was aware of this little arrangement. And what were you saying earlier?"

Andrew opened his mouth, then closed it again, looking to John like a sort of impaired fish. Jeannie turned to him in cold fury.

"Andrew? What's he talking about, Andrew? Are you really cheating on me? Say something, goddamnit , Andrew!"

But Andrew said nothing, confirming Sherlock's observations. Jeannie slapped him across the face and ran down the hall. Sherlock sidled up to John, looking rather pleased with himself. John smirked in return.

"So what's so important?" he asked. Sherlock eyed him, but did not respond, simply twirling 7-4-37 into the combination lock.

"You need to come with me after school," Sherlock finally said without looking up, "it's important."

"Is it a secret or something?"

"Field trip to the darkest recesses of our lovely secondary school."

John allowed himself a fraction of a second to entertain thoughts of what could possibly occur in the school's darkest corners, but quickly brought himself back to the present.

"Lead the way."

**CHAPTER FOUR**

The field trip destination turned out to be John's ex-locker. The FUCK YOU paint was clearly visible, complete with ugly yellow drip marks down the locker's surface.

"Open it," Sherlock commanded, while peering down to inspect the paint. John spun the lock and, upon opening, discovered a can of yellow paint sitting on the shelf, uncapped.

"Well, I guess that clears up the mystery of the paint's origin," Sherlock said, straightening up. He took the can off the shelf and turned it over in his hands. John noticed Sherlock's hands in the dim light: slender, with long fingers stroking the paint can. He shook his head jerkily to rid the thoughts and focused on the can.

"Tempura paint," Sherlock murmured, "the entire graffiti will come off with a bit of water."

"Hooligans are dumb," John replied, "if you're going to commit a crime, at least make it permanent."

"Not necessarily," Sherlock replied, still examining the paint can, "they wanted it to come off. They want you to know who did it, I think. That's why the left the can in here."

"How'd they get the combination?" John wondered aloud, "Maybe it was that guy who talked to me at lunch. He offered to raise my grades. He must have some kind of access to these things. He could find out my combination, too, I bet."

John felt immensely pleased with himself. He'd only known Sherlock for a day, but he wanted to impress him, and he was pretty proud of that deduction. He waited patiently for Sherlock to praise his clever thinking. However, Sherlock laughed out loud.

"Mycroft? No way."

"That's his name? And why not?" John asked indignantly, "he said he was your arch-enemy, after all."

"John, he's my brother!"

"Wait, what?"

"You know, brother? Must I truly explain this, John? When two people love each other very much…"

"Sherlock!" John grinned, "I know how these things work. I just can't believe he's your brother, that's all."

"What? You can't believe that an outcast like me would be related to Mr. Socialite?"

"I didn't say that."

"But it's true," Sherlock said wryly, "anyways, I doubt this was Mycroft. He's far too much of a goody-two-shoes. This isn't just for the fun of vandalizing. This is a threat."

"A threat? From who? I just got here!"

"Most likely from a teacher. A female teacher about six feet tall, long nails and large fingers, and wears wedge heels. From that description, I'd peg your English teacher."

"How on Earth would you conclude that? My _English teacher_ did this? No way."

"Let's see. FUCK YOU written across new kid's locker, in washable paint, paint can left in locker. So we know that perpetrator has the locker combination, as there are no signs of forced entry. Lack of paint drips on the floor and the unique smearing pattern of the letters suggest that this was not done with a paintbrush, but that a finger was dipped into the paint and used to write. In that case, the fingerprint in indistinguishable, but the finger is at least two centimeters wide, quite large for a finger. Probably left yellow marks under the nail, which we know are long because we can see nail marks in the paint. Our writer was at least six feet tall, due to the height of the graffiti. Oh, and look here," Sherlock gestured to a spot a few centimeters away from the writing. John leaned in to look closely and saw the faintest speck of tan-colored powder clinging to the red locker.

"You see that?" Sherlock said triumphantly, "that's foundation. The perpetrator wiped their hand or arm on their face at some point, then wiped it on the locker. Maybe wiping off sweat, perhaps? It's hot down here. Foundation implies female. Also, before you stepped on them, there were footprints in the dust, very unique footprints that could have only been produced by high-heeled wedge shoes. I ran these traits through my database containing every teacher you've interacted with so far, and the result was your English teacher, Ms. Brealey.


	2. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

The next morning, John carefully stacked his folders on the shelf of locker 221B. Sherlock's papers were strewn across the locker, with seemingly meaningless pictures pinned to the door with magnetic strips. There was a close-up of somebody's shoe, a disembodied hand in a glass tube, an ordinary police phone box, and an apple. John shrugged and was about to head to class when a girl ran up to him.

"Are you John Watson?" she asked breathlessly.

"Yes," he said uncertainly.

"You're supposed to be in the chemistry lab right now!"

"I am? But…homeroom starts in two minutes!"

"Don't worry about that. Come with me." The girl pulled on his elbow energetically and John had no choice but to follow. "I'm Molly, by the way."

"John," John said awkwardly, he hand still grasping his elbow.

"Yeah, I know. Come _on_!"

In the chemistry lab, John was unsurprised to see Sherlock peering intently though a microscope.

"Molly?" he said without looking up, "did you get me coffee?"

"No," she said, "but I got you something better." She thrust John forward proudly. Sherlock still didn't look up.

"Molly, answer me this: Is John a fluid?"

"Um, no?"

"Is John made of delicious caffeinated nectar?"

"No."

"Will John keep me from falling asleep in astronomy class?"

"Depends. Is John free during your astronomy class?"

"You take an astronomy class?" John asked, interested. He had long harbored a slight interest in the stars.

"It is boring as all fuck," Sherlock groaned miserably, "it is full of useless information that is of no use to me."

"It taught you the Copernican system, at least," Molly giggled and looked at John, "he didn't know the Earth went around the Sun."

"What does it matter!" Sherlock finally looked up, slamming his hands on the lab table. The chemistry teacher poked his head in from the next room.

"Is everything alright in there? Remember, Sherlock, letting you use the chemistry lab equipment is a privilege, not a right."

"Yes, sir," Sherlock saluted.

"Good. I'm trusting you, Sherlock." The teacher's head disappeared.

"Why am I here?" John asked, "I'm missing French right now."

"Hmm. French is useful, at least. German, of course, would have been a better choice….if only I had known you earlier, I could have convinced you to switch."

"I like French!" John protested at the sudden implication of a schedule change.

"No matter," Sherlock decided, waving his hand, "French it is, then. Now, where were we before the interruption?"

"Basic knowledge of the solar system," John said.

"Right. Useless. You want to know what _is_ useful? The fact that your English teacher, Ms. Brealey, has an estranged husband who owns a liquor store a few hours away."

"Why on Earth is that useful?"

"I'm not sure yet, but it's always good to know your target."

"Why are you collecting tidbits on poor Ms. Brealey?" Molly interjected, looking curious, "She's harmless."

"Yes, yes, that is the façade she puts forth," Sherlock agreed, "but there is something deeper here, I know it."

John craned his neck to get a glimpse of the microscope slide Sherlock had been intently studying, but with one sweeping gesture Sherlock slid it across the table, out of John's sight. He did it so smoothly and kept talking about Ms. Brealey all the while, seeming like he had done it by accident. But John got the hint regardless.

"Okay, I suppose that's all. John, you and Molly can head to class now. I'm going to stay here. Catch you later."

"Oh. Um, bye," John felt like he had been pushed away. He and Molly headed for the door. He took one last glance at Sherlock as he left, but the boy was already engrossed in a binder of pictures.

"How do you know Sherlock?" Molly asked. John looked at her: a plain girl, with a simple blonde ponytail and big, curious eyes.

"Who, me? Oh, we just met yesterday. We share a locker."

"Oh, really? You guys seem like good friends."

"We do? Wait, are you friends with him? Are you his girlfriend?"

"God, no!" Molly laughed at the question, but John sensed a slight longing beneath that laugh. "Our parents are friends, so I hang out with him sometimes. I probably won't do that as often, now that he has you."

"Now that he has me?"

"You know, a friend."

They stopped outside of John's French class. Through the closed door, John could here the monotonous chorus of verb conjugations.

"Well, see you, I guess," John said awkwardly.

"Yeah," she grinned. John watched her ponytail bounce around a corner, then turned to face the wrath of Madame Brown for being half an hour late to class.


	3. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

"Hey. You. Are you new here?" John looked up from his vocabulary sheet to see a girl poking him with her eraser. John looked up to see Madame Brown erasing the whiteboard. Safe in conversation, he turned back to the girl. She was very pretty, with flowing brown hair, big eyes, and a revealing neckline.

"Um, yeah. I'm John."

"I'm Lisa," she smiled shyly. "I noticed you were late to class. That's pretty brave of you. Madame Brown is usually pretty hard on tardies." She smiled again. "I like brave guys."

"Um," John said. His previous girlfriend, Katherine, had been acquired over the summer at a nerdy summer camp. He had no experience whatsoever with advances from females at school. He felt a bit like a fish on land.

"Want to go out after school? Get a snack or something?"

"Um, sure."

"What's your locker number? I'll meet you there after the last bell."

"Uh, 221B."

"Great!" The bell rang. Lisa gathered her things and headed for the door. As she left, she turned to wink at John. "It's a date."

John paid special attention to Ms. Brealey in English class, carefully observing her teaching methods, her mannerisms, even eyeing her desk looking for clues. At the end of class, an idea struck him, and he hurried up to her as she erased the board.

"Um, Ms. Brealey?"

"Yes, John?" she replied, pausing with the eraser in her hand, looking at him inquisitively.

"I was just, um, wondering when the test would be?"

"Next Friday, John, I said so yesterday."

"Oh, thank you!" He hurried out of the room.

"I found something?" he announced proudly to Sherlock at their lunch table. Sherlock barely looked up from his mobile phone. "Really?"

"Yes. I stopped by Ms. Brealey after class. I distracted her with a question, and I got a good look at her right hand. You're right – there are flecks of yellow paint under her fingernails!"

"Well," Sherlock sighed, "that is certainly a clever observation, but it merely confirms what we already deduced."

"At least we're certain now," John defended himself.

"I was certain before," Sherlock replied, "but I still appreciate it nonetheless. Regardless, we must move this case along before I get bored. We'll go around after school today."

"I can't – I have a date."

"What?" Sherlock whipped his head up, finally fully engaged in the conversation.

"You know, it's when two people who like each other go and do things."

"That's what I was suggesting," Sherlock muttered dryly.

"Not like that, Sherlock, you know…"

"Who's your date?"

"This girl from my French class named Lisa."

"Oh." And just like that, Sherlock turned back to his mobile, intent upon the screen. He started jotting things down in a notebook.

"So…" John said, trying to break the silence, "You got any dates coming up? Anyone special in your life?"

"I alone have enough special for this entire county, John."

"That's certainly true," John chortled.

"Regardless," Sherlock snapped the notebook shut, "I suppose Lisa will have to come along with us, then."

"Sherlock, I don't really think…"

"John, you are the new kid here. You should listen to my advice."

John sighed, but he knew it was no use arguing with Sherlock. He decided to apologize profusely to Lisa and ask her if she wanted to come. She would understand, right? They ate lunch in silence until a tall, stocky blonde boy came up to their table.

"Sherlock," he said gruffly, "Will you help me with my math homework?"

"Not now, Greg, I'm busy," Sherlock muttered.

"But I have a test today!"

"Ask one of your buddies."

"Jonathan is retaking a history test right now, and Sally has lunch next period. You gotta help me Sherlock!"

"Look, Greg, I can't. See you later."

The boy, Greg, stomped away from the table sullenly. Sherlock spent a long while paying close attention to his fingernails. John stayed silent, as usual.

"Who was that?" he finally asked, unable to sit there watching Sherlock's intent scruity of his appendages any longer.  
"Greg Lestrade. A colleague of mine."

"Colleague?"

"Yes. I don't have friends."

Well, there goes this budding friendship, John thought, more than a little bit hurt. Sherlock seemed completely oblivious to the pain he had caused to his companion. Not for the first time, John found himself contemplating how one so smart could be so ignorant.

"Well, that's that!" Sherlock jumped out his seat, causing a few freshman at neighboring tables to shoot them odd glances. "I'm off to history. Care to join me?"

John hesitated, considering punishing Sherlock for the earlier comment, giving a good comeback about not being friends. But Sherlock was certainly acting friendly, and as much as John hated to admit it, he enjoyed the boy's company.

"Let's go."

"Splendid," Sherlock clapped his hands together, "I need you to man the stopwatch for me. I'm timing my walking speed at different hours of the day to see when I'm least efficient."


End file.
